


(Because Sometimes) Pictures Are Worth More Than A Thousand Words

by rinfics



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: DM/HG, F/M, Harry Potter - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-04
Updated: 2009-12-04
Packaged: 2017-10-04 04:17:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rinfics/pseuds/rinfics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hermione's trying to find the perfect gift...</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Because Sometimes) Pictures Are Worth More Than A Thousand Words

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the dmhgficexchange "Brew a Love Potion for Draco and Hermione" (2006-2007).

Hermione sat at the dining table, a stack of pictures before her, and a cup of tea in her hand. She took a delicate sip of the fragrant beverage and sighed. Valentine's Day was today, and she had nothing planned for her husband. Not that she intentionally forgot to get one, it was just that the holiday crept up on her like…a stealthy tiger waiting for its' latest meal.

She put down her tea and started flipping through the pictures in front of her. She could say that she didn't know why she felt so compelled to give him a gift—Merlin knew she had three hundred and sixty-four other days to shower him with affection—but that would be lying to herself, and that was one thing she had promised herself she would never do. The truth was…well, the truth wasn't easy to admit.

She sighed and leaned back on the chair, crossing her arms over her chest. She was a proud person, and admitting her own faults didn't really rank high on her like-to-do list. But she was made of much tougher stuff than that, so…the truth was that she wasn't really a very good wife.

What makes a woman a good wife is a subject that has been debated on for centuries. The standard criteria were composed of a few basic things: A woman who can cook makes a good wife. A woman who can clean makes a good wife. A woman who is always there for her husband makes a good wife. A woman who can manage her household makes a good wife.

She sighed once more and raked her fingers through her unruly hair. She didn't follow that criteria—actually, she thought it was a load of donkey dung—but that didn't comfort her in the least, seeing that she failed each and every one of them. Her job at the Potters' Orphanage as the Director of Academics was rigorous. Given her tendency to be completely absorbed in her work, she rarely was able to attend to household duties.

Her husband, though, met each and every criterion perfectly. His cooking rivaled those of famous chefs. He was very conscious about the state of cleanliness in their house. He was the one who managed all their accounts, social schedules, and other whatnot that more than occasionally slipped her mind. And he always found time to listen to whatever she had to say. All while managing his business.

She smiled wryly. Sometimes, she thought it would be better if he was the wife and she was the husband. But she knew she shouldn't complain. She had the perfect husband—sometimes though, she wished he wasn't so perfect.

It would make the task of finding him a gift so much easier.

She picked up a photo from the stack in front of her. In it, there were two teenagers beneath an oak tree. The boy—for he was not yet a man—was sitting with his legs stretched out before him, a book in his hand. The girl had her head laid down on his lap, her eyes closed, and a serene expression on her face as the boy ran his fingers through her hair, over and over again. His mouth was moving; shaping words that couldn't be heard through the barrier of space and time. Or through matter, if you wanted to look at it scientifically. She remembered that the sky was…

…blue, oh so blue that day. She hadn't really believed him when he had told her that there would be clear skies today. Yesterday, the skies were gray—it was raining, although it may be clichéd, cats and dogs. It seemed like the storm would never pass, what with the lightning and thunder flashing and booming like there was no tomorrow. She had laughed at his prediction, and was so sure about the weather condition that she had entered into a bet with him. If he was right, they would spend the day as he wished. If she was right, then he'd be her personal slave for the day.

Well it turns out he knew Mother Nature more than she did. This was a tad unfair, actually, seeing as she was the female and he obviously wasn't.

As she combed her hair, she wondered what they were going to do today. She had known him for nearly half of her life, but still, she couldn't predict what he was going to do or say.

She tied her hair into a ponytail, smiling. His unpredictability was very much a part of his charm (but she would rather eat slugs than tell him that—Merlin! Imagine what that would do to his ego!). For someone like her, who was in every way predictable, that touch of danger and uncertainty that was in essence, him, made her feel both alarmed and excited at once.

When he first came here, to her sanctuary, that scent of danger that always was around him frightened her to no end. Here was the person who had the capability to ruin whatever fragile peace she had made for herself. So she had bombarded him with words—for words were her specialty—hurtful words, stinging words, words that she was sure were going to stick under his skin like nasty barbs.

She was so preoccupied with trying to protect herself that she failed to see the condition he was in. When he slumped quietly to the floor—quiet as opposed to her loud voice—her tirade was cut short. It was then she noticed his wounds—lots of small scratches, a long diagonal gash from his pectorals to his left hip, and many more that she was sure were on his body, although hidden from view—and the amount of blood that covered him.

She stood mute for a few seconds, her mind trying to catch up with what she was seeing—then suddenly, as if a switch was turned on—her Mediwitch training kicked in. Levitate the body over to the bed, check. Clean materials on hand, check. Patient breathing—barely, but still—check. Amount of blood lost—suddenly she thought: what if a vampire had bitten him? But she had no time to dwell on those things—gallons, she was sure.

She stayed with him for three days and three nights, trying to nurse him back to health, until the fourth day came, and when she woke up, the first thing she saw was an empty bed.

She nearly jumped out of her chair, saying his name over and over again, first in a quiet voice, then louder and louder as she grew more frantic. She had searched everywhere, but he was nowhere to be found. She stopped in her tracks as a thought occurred to her—what if he was in her library?

She rushed to her bedroom and found the notch on the wall that was the switch and pressed it. The wall opened to reveal another room. Bookcases filled with books lined the three walls. There was a window facing the garden, and a small table and a comfy chair facing it.

The occupant of the chair was the person she was looking for. She let out a sigh and strode forward, stopping just beside the chair. He was asleep, a book open in his lap. If he wanted to sleep, why didn't he just sleep in her bed?

She went back to her room and grabbed her blanket. Going back to the library, she took the book he was reading, careful to put a bookmark on the page he stopped on, and tucked him in. Satisfied with her work, she read the title of the book. Beauty and the Beast. She smiled to herself. Somehow, it was strangely fitting.

After that day, they settled on some easy, unspoken truce. He would be on his best behavior, and she would be as gracious as she could be. He stayed for one more night, then one more, until the 'one more nights' turned into a year, then two years.

She slowly grew comfortable to his presence in her house. Sure, he still unnerved her at times, but having his company was worth it. She had been alone for what seemed to her like a long, long time. After the war broke out, she was sent to work on deciphering texts that might give them leverage on their enemies. It was really more of a tactic to keep her safe and away from harm, and normally she would've fought back and demanded to be on the front lines of battle with her friends, but she didn't want to cause them anymore worry. Besides, she knew she could be of more help here than with them. Academics were, after all, her specialty.

She looked in the mirror, surveying her appearance. She wasn't a vain person, but she found that she liked being…more put together when he was around. Now where could he be? She hoped whatever they were doing today wasn't anything foolhardy or dangerous. They might be far away from where the fighting occurred, but they were still at war, and safety was paramount.

"Hermione! Her-mi-o-ne!" he called out from outside the window in a sing-song voice.

She smiled and looked out the window. "What do you want?"

He looked up at her, handsome and smiling. "Come out and play."

She laughed and complied. When she reached the garden, he took her hand and walked with her towards the old oak tree. For a few moments they walked in comfortable silence. She looked at their joined hands, then at him, then at their destination, thinking. It was funny that she was comfortable enough with him to let him hold her hand. She wasn't the kind of person who liked to show physical displays of affection, but with him, it seemed like anything was possible.

They had reached the tree. He sat down, and then tugged her hand, motioning for her to sit down too. She tucked her skirt underneath her and followed him. It was then she noticed that he was carrying a book.

"Are we going to read today?" She asked, not looking at him but at the blue sky.

She felt his gaze on her as he replied. "No, I'm going to read to you today."

She met his gaze. There was something in there that she couldn't place. Something warm that reminded her of a cozy fireplace in a winter storm. She wondered why she felt safe and warm too, instead of frightened and in danger.

He opened the book and cleared his throat. She smiled and laid her head on his lap. His other hand combed through her hair, lulling her to a state of half-slumber.

"Once upon a time," He began, his voice velvety soft, "there lived a prince who lived in a castle…"

She placed the photo on the table. She had forgotten about the security system that day. While they were out enjoying that little bit of quiet time, the cameras had been clicking. She was annoyed at their lack of privacy, before she remembered that she knew how to manipulate the system. So she took the pictures out and kept them.

She took another picture from the stack and smiled. They were slightly older—eighteen, if she remembered correctly. It was her birthday, and they were celebrating. In the picture, they were seated side by side, smiling for the camera. His arm was slung over her shoulder, and he was smiling. She was holding up his present, and she was looking at him. There was a cake and balloons, and some streamers too. She was so happy…

…and nervous at the same time. She really didn't know how that could be possible, except that it was. She should be used to it, she supposed. Whenever she was with him, she felt things that she normally didn't feel. She felt beautiful. She felt carefree. And, after a long time of being tense and sad, she felt happy.

She was blindfolded right now, standing in the middle of nowhere, for all she knew. He had—ambushed was the only word she could think of—her a while ago, while she was poring over the Mayan texts that had magically appeared on her desk—sent from Professor Lupin, no doubt—and had brought her here.

She had been standing for five minutes (and she knew because she counted), and she was getting impatient. She thought about removing her blindfold, but she decided against it. She didn't want to ruin his fun, and besides, she was having fun too. It wasn't everyday you get blindfolded by someone you lived with whom you also had fallen in love with.

She sighed. She was a hopeless case. Somewhere—actually, it was more of a some when, if there was a word—along the line, after he had read to her under the oak tree, or perhaps when he had read to her, she had fallen for him.

She had tried to talk herself out of it. She told herself it was preposterous—how could she have fallen for someone like him? But then her mind replied: why not? How many women found a man who treated her like he did? He cooked for her, and he was willing to help her clean the house. He made her laugh, and was willing to take her seriously. He made her feel beautiful, and he brought her a bit of fun each day. He took care of her when she was sick. He didn't complain when she would shut him and everything else out of her mind when she was working (in fact, he brought her food every mealtime, because she forgot to eat). He treated her like a princess—like his princess.

And besides, her mind argued. How can you fight something that feels so right?

It was true. Anytime—every time—she was with him, it felt like her world was complete. The sun would shine brighter, the air would smell sweeter, and her mood would be lighter. Whether they were bantering, or reading, or cooking, or anything, as long as he was there, it felt like everything was all right with her world.

So she gave in to the feeling.

She didn't allow herself to wonder if he felt the same way. Doing so only gave her a plethora of reasons why he wouldn't—she was not beautiful, she tended to ignore everyone and everything around her when she was working. She was a bad cook. She was crabby. Wondering always made her feel bad about her shortcomings, and that was a feeling she didn't want to come across often.

For her, for now, it was enough for her to feel this way, to have him with her. She would take what life would offer with both hands and a smile.

What was taking him so long? Seven minutes had passed. What if, she wondered, what if he tripped and hit his head on the counter? What if he stabbed himself with the scissors? What if he got locked inside the bathroom and didn't know how to get out? He could be in mortal peril!

Just when she was about to remove the blindfold, she felt his hands yank it off. She blinked as she took in the sight before her.

Dozens and dozens of lit candles were scattered all over the living room, giving off a warm glow. Balloons were tied to the wall lamps, and streamers hung from the ceiling. The curtains were closed, giving them the illusion that they were closeted off in their own world, away from anything and everything else.

On the table was a bottle of chilled, grape flavored sparkling wine, and two champagne flutes. There was a cake beside the bottle—a round, chocolate icing covered thing, with what looked to be lilies of the valley artfully arranged on top. Moving closer, she was able to see the lettering on the cake: Happy 18th, Hermione.

Tears began to well in her eyes. Totally immersed in her translation, she had forgotten it was her birthday today. No one else remembered either, save for him. He did this all for her. He remembered and wanted to celebrate the day she was born. Inside, she felt her heart fall deeper in love with him.

"Hermione?" He whispered, his hands on her shoulders, "Are you okay?"

She sniffled, wiped her tears away, and nodded.

"I'm sorry…I—" He paused, handing her a tissue, "—didn't mean to make you cry…if you didn't want to celebrate, you could've just told me…it's just that I wanted to see you smile on your birthd—"

"No, its all right." She cut him off. Facing him, she smiled. "It's wonderful. Thank you."

He let out a sigh of relief. "For a second there, I thought we'd have to cancel the celebration."

She 'humph'-ed. "Now I see what you really care about."

He looked at her, meeting her eyes. "I care about you."

She blushed and turned away. Now she knew why people used the line, 'be still my beating heart'. She swore he could hear it from where he stood, near as he was to her.

He turned his gaze away and gestured to the sofa. "C'mon, let's open your gift!"

She led the way to the sofa, and they both sat down. Now she saw that there was a small black box hidden from her view behind the cake. It was the size of a bracelet box, wrapped with a shiny red bow. She took it from its spot and gently tugged on the bow.

She felt him tense as she opened the box.

"What's this?" She asked, raising her brow.

Inside was a slip of parchment, with elegant writing in gold ink. She read it out loud:

_"For you I will_

Be anything you want me to be

Today I shall

Hear your heart's one plea

Even if I have to walk on fire

I will grant your heart's desire"

She saw a glimmer of magic run through the words as she read them. For a brief moment, she was puzzled, and then it hit her. She looked up at him quickly.

"Th-this is an Unbreakable Vow, isn't it?"

"No." He replied.

"But is it some kind of a magical binding?" She asked.

"Yes."

"What kind?" She asked again. She knew there existed some other form of the Unbreakable Vow, but had never really seen one performed at close hand.

"I can't explain, Hermione. I can just give you my word that whatever it is your heart desires, I will do for you."

"Are you sure?" She needed to know.

"Hermione, all I want to do is make you happy. Whatever it takes, I'll do it." He met her eyes squarely. His eyes were clear and resolute. He really did mean what he was saying.

"What if I tell you I want you to defeat Voldemort?" She challenged.

He flinched at the name, but kept his eyes locked on hers as he took her hands. "You have to mean it, Hermione. Otherwise, it won't work."

She knew what she wanted, but would he accept it if she told him? After all, she wasn't sure about his feelings for her. Was it right to…order him to have a relationship with her? She knew it was wrong. And she knew that that kind of relationship was one she could not accept, especially from someone like him. They would just wind up hating each other in the long run. So she settled for something close enough for what she wanted from him.

"Tell me." his voice was hypnotic, lulling her into a trance.

"I—I…" she broke off, unsure how to phrase it.

"Come on, Hermione. Now's not the time to be shy."

"I want you to stay by my side forever." There, she said it.

He looked taken aback. For a second she wondered if he was going to ask her to say something else, when suddenly, his face broke out into a smile, and she felt the warm tingle of magic flow from her to him, then back.

"There." he whispered, "It's a done deal."

As she looked into his eyes, she wondered if he would come to regret his decision. She knew she wouldn't.

"Yes." She smiled up at him. "Forever's a long time, you know?"

"It will never be long enough for me." Se said, kissing their joined hands.

Her heart fluttered.

She placed that one along with the others and flipped through some more photos. Here was one taken during his birthday. He didn't want to celebrate, but she insisted that she should return the favor. Sure, she burnt the cake, but hey—it was the thought that counted.

Here was another one, taken during winter—two snow people standing side by side. His snow person had horns made from carrots and a tail from an old rag and a bit of cotton. Hers had a halo made out of twigs and wings made out of cardboard. They had spent hours making them and spent the rest of the day snuggled up inside her library drinking hot cocoa and making up scenarios about how their snow people had lived their lives.

And here was one that was taken after that winter, when they had transfigured her chair to a comfy two-seater sofa. They had been in mutual agreement that a chair was meant for one person to sit in, not two people trying to squeeze themselves into a small space. He was posed on the couch, pretty much like Rose in Titanic—except he was not a woman, and he was not naked. She remembered thinking it was a pity he still had his clothes on.

This one was taken one evening during the summer. They were stargazing out in the garden, and the fireflies had surrounded them. They said nothing the whole night, content with sharing the comfortable silence with each other. Neither of them wanted to break the spell woven by those tiny, glowing creatures.

She suddenly stopped flipping through the photographs and took one out from the pile. There was nothing remarkable about the photograph. It wasn't bright and cheerful like the picture of the snow people. Neither of them was smiling. Neither of them was aware that the picture was being taken, actually.

She ran her thumb over the surface of the picture, trying to see the figures moving inside. Unfortunately though, no amount of thumb-rubbing would speed up the event going on inside the picture. It was a dark and stormy…

…night had fallen pretty fast. She glanced out of the library window, and was worried by the sight that met her. Dark storm clouds were quickly moving in from the horizon. The winds were picking up, making the grass in the garden ripple. Leaves fell from the oak tree, landing on the grass. They looked like little boats being tossed around by a stormy sea.

She gnawed her lip, trying to prevent herself from heading out the garden and looking for him. He had been gone for more than three hours now, and the storm was getting worse. What if he got caught in it? What if a stray branch flew and speared his head? What if he met a group of rabid squirrels?

She halted her thoughts and took in a deep breath. He was a grown person. He could take care of himself. But that didn't reassure her in the least.

She knew she shouldn't have let him go. When he told her a while ago that he needed to take a walk outside, she absentmindedly nodded, absorbed in her work. In the back of her mind, she had registered his leaving. A few minutes after he left, she debated on doing so herself. The air was heavy and stifling—it felt like a giant warm, wet blanket was draped over her shoulders. She was sure there was going to be a storm later on. But half of her mind was still focused on her work, so she shrugged her shoulders and continued on.

Now the sky was fully dark. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed, making her jump in her seat. He still wasn't back. What was taking him so long?

If this was in any other occasion, she would've laughed at herself in disbelief. She was worrying about his welfare. A few years before, that idea would have been unthinkable.

But she had come to care for him—no, love him so much. He was such a part of her life, that she couldn't imagine living it without him. In another life, in another time, she wouldn't have believed it possible. But with him, impossible things seemed to happen.

She wondered what they were going to do when the war was over. Would he leave? Could she hold him to his promise? What if he stayed with her? Would what they had built between them—camaraderie, companionship, peace, and yes, love—would all that crumble under the glare of society's expectations? How would he react to her friends? More, how would she react to his? If they were going to fall apart because of society, then maybe she should ask him to leave. She didn't want what they had to be destroyed.

Deep inside though, she knew it was going to break her apart if he left. She was a trifle possessive. Making friends had never been an easy feat for her, so the little amount she had, she held close to her heart.

But she could handle it—no, she would handle it. If he left—and there was a great possibility that he would—she would mourn the loss of a friend, of a love, then move on. It was all she could do.

The front door slammed open, breaking her train of thought. She stood up and quickly headed towards the living room, intent of giving him a scolding he would never forget. How dare he make her worry? What if he got hurt? What if the storm had caught up with him? What if a bunch of rabid squirrels had decided to make him their dinner?

All these thoughts flew out of her head when she saw his face.

The first thing she noticed was that he wasn't smiling. He usually had a smile—if not on his mouth, then in his eyes. But now his mouth was set in a straight line, and his eyes didn't have the twinkle it normally did. His hair was tousled by the wind, and she itched to run her hand through it. She wanted to hug him, comfort him, and kiss the frown on his forehead away.

But all that had to wait. There was a feeling of tense anticipation in the air—something big was about to happen. Something that could, and most probably would, change their lives.

"Hermione…" He began, "We need to talk"

She felt her knees begin to tremble and nodded. She walked to the couch, only to be stopped by his hand grabbing hers. This was it. He was going to tell her that he had to leave.

He looked up and blew a lock of his hair away from his eyes. "I don't know how to say this."

She stood there silently. If he was going to leave, why didn't he just say it out loud? Beating around the bush was like sticking a knife into her and twisting it several times.

He looked down and met her eyes. "You know I care about you, right?"

She bit her lip and forced her head to nod. Now her legs weren't trembling. She felt like they were turning into wooden blocks.

He sighed. "Ah, screw this. Marry me, Hermione."

She almost nodded, but then his words reached her brain. She let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding. Marry him? Surely he was joking, right? This must be some part of his elaborate plan to make her laugh.

She smiled. "For a second there, I thought you would tell me you have to leave."

"I do."

That wiped the smile off her face. "What?"

"It's the last big push, Hermione. The final battle." He took both of her hands in his. "They've called me to fight."

"B-but…you can't go!" She sputtered out. "You can't!"

"I'm going."

"They have others to fight! Lots of other people!" She held back her tears. They wouldn't sway him when he had made his mind up. Only reason and logic would. "I need you here with me."

"They need me more, Hermione." He replied.

"You're leaving me then? You're breaking your promise to me?" Her voice was rising by the minute.

His eyes were sad as he answered her question. "I'm not breaking my promise to you, Hermione. I'll always be near you, wherever you are, whatever happens." He looked away. "I wanted to marry you before I left, so that even if—" he paused, "—even if I don't come back, you'll always have a part of me with you."

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "No. I won't marry you. So now you can't leave."

"I'm leaving, Hermione, whether you marry me or not." He kissed both of her hands, before letting them go. "I didn't want end this way, though." He walked through the front door, and then paused. "Good-bye, Hermione. Think of me often."

And then he was gone.

She covered her face with her hands—those hands which he had kissed—and let her tears fall. She didn't want it to end this way either. But she didn't want him to leave. She wanted him by her side always. Living in the same house, eating with her, and making her laugh. She wanted to read with him, make snow people with him. She wanted them to grow old together. She loved him.

Her head snapped up as the realization hit her.

She loved him. She trusted in him. She believed in him. She wanted to marry him, spend the rest of her mortal life with him. And she was letting the most important person in her life walk away from her, without ever letting him know.

Things happened seemingly in slow motion for her then. She ran out the front door, looking for him. She didn't see him anywhere. The rain began to pour as she called out his name, over and over again. She ran to the backyard, mud squishing beneath her feet. There he was midway between the house and the oak tree. She ran to him, calling his name. Again, and again, and again, praying he would hear her between the sound of the rain and her own beating heart.

He turned around, and caught her as she jumped at him. He hugged her tightly, murmuring comforting words that she couldn't quite catch. Her head was spinning, giddy with relief. She had caught up to him. He hadn't left yet. She had one more chance.

When they had both calmed down, she stepped away from his hold and held his hands. Lightning flashed, thunder followed. She smiled up at him. He smiled back.

"I love you." She said, and put her hand to his lips when he was about to speak. "No, listen. I love you, and yes, I will marry you." She felt his smile grow wider beneath her palm.

"You make me happy. You make me feel safe, loved, cherished and wanted." She took in a deep breath. "I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I'm never letting you go. So I'll marry you, now, tomorrow, or even ten years from now."

He kissed her palm and took it away from his mouth. "Hermione Granger, with heaven and earth as our witness, do you take me as your husband, together in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, until death do us part?"

"I do. And even until after death do us part, I will be yours, and yours only." She replied, feeling the warm rush of magic flow within her.

"And I the same. Forever yours, Hermione." He said, taking her face in his palm.

"Forever yours."

She looked on as lightning flashed, illuminating the couple inside. They were kissing, sealing the promise they had made under the heavens and over the earth. The rain fell down on them, blessing their union.

She could still remember the feel of his lips on hers; soft at first, then harder as the rush of magic flowed over them both, changing the intensity of their kiss. The feel of the rain as it pelted them both; the electricity in the air as lightning flashed, again, and again, and again; the sound of thunder, seemingly as loud as the sound of her heart.

He left afterwards, heading off into the battle that was to be recorded later in history as the best battle ever fought, and won. She had spent her wedding night wide awake in bed, worrying about her husband.

After a week of worrying, waiting, and wondering if she had dreamed the whole thing, he appeared in her doorway, bloodied, bruised, and half-dead on his feet, very much like the first time he appeared in her doorway. She had taken him in, and spent the next week tending to his wounds. When he recovered, they had gone into the city to get married the way society deemed proper.

They had created waves of shock and sensation throughout the whole Wizarding community. Tabloids left and right published stories of how they had gotten together—each one more outrageous than the last (one involved her jumping off a hot air balloon and landing in his arms). They had weathered though all of it—the media attention, the paparazzi, the well-meaning people who repeatedly asked if they were under some sort of curse.

After they had gotten married, they moved back to her house—now theirs—and had settled in. They had (mostly him, actually) made changes to the house—adding new rooms, expanding the library, building a tree house on the oak tree for their children. And they had lived happily ever after. But it was not yet the end. They had a long life to live ahead of them, many more adventures and journeys to take together.

She smiled and got to work. She had found the perfect present.

Later, when Draco Malfoy arrived home, he found the kitchen light left open and a framed photograph on the table. He loosened his tie, hung up his coat and then went to the kitchen table and picked up the frame.

In the picture it was raining—lightning flashed and illuminated their backyard, revealing two teenagers sharing a kiss in the storm. He smiled as he remembered, then he flipped the frame over and read the dedication written in the neat, precise handwriting of his wife.

Dearest Draco,

Fifty years ago today, you asked me to marry you and I agreed.

I've never regretted my decision.

Thank you for fifty wonderful years. We have more of them ahead of us.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Love, Hermione

THE END


End file.
